


The Gospel According to Doris Day

by unicornsandbutane



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Angst, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Mental Health Issues, References to Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-07
Updated: 2015-02-07
Packaged: 2018-03-10 20:58:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3303251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unicornsandbutane/pseuds/unicornsandbutane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sniper has locked himself away, and the Scout is determined to find out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Gospel According to Doris Day

Six days was a heck of a long time to see not hide nor hair of someone, when he amounted to one ninth of the total population in this abandoned farmyard. The Scout scuffed his shoe in the loose dirt some distance from the Sniper’s camper, watching the way the topsoil disintegrated into dust on the wind, the moment it was disturbed. It was hard to believe anything had ever grown here. 

The van sat parked near a barren tree— wishful thinking for shade when the temperature got up into the 90s around mid-day, before falling down below freezing again in the middle of the night. And the Scout was used to those kinds of weather conditions, after so many months trucking in and out of various deserts, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.

He wondered if the guy had just up and died in some way not covered by respawn. Like, if he had a sudden massive coronary, would respawn pick him up or would he be on his own with the aspirin and the Medic’s questionable zeal for heart surgery? Nobody answered when he knocked on the corrugated steel door, and the little button in the handle was solid when he tried it. Locked. 

The curtains were drawn, and he had to wonder what the Sniper was doing for food in there. Like, did he have a bunch of canned goods stashed away for these long furlough days? If so, was he just eating them cold, because usually when the Sniper cooked it involved suspending a can over a fire. The Scout knew there was a gas-burning stove in the slide-in, but he’d never seen it in any state other than covered in junk— spare jars, trousers in need of patching, books, newspapers, whole collections of stuff the Scout couldn’t name or imagine a use for. The stack reached to the underside of the cabinets, and somehow the Scout had doubts that the Sniper would clear that off to start a sudden career as a gourmet chef. 

That the camper was locked at all was fairly strange, he thought, taking a quick lap around the vehicle. Everyone else seemed to be having a grand old time with this short vacation from the fighting, while RED figured out some confusing accounting crisis. BLU hadn’t even arrived on the scene yet, and with the days shortening and the light turning gold, the runner had to admit, this was the most peaceful his life had been in some time. 

Peace drove him crazy. 

He couldn’t even sleep if it was too quiet. He needed the Engineer tinkering, the Medic’s records, the Heavy whistling in the armoury, the Soldier attempting to train his raccoons to play fetch,  _something,_ before he’d succumb to unconsciousness. He’d never been anywhere that was really, truly quiet. 

The Sniper  _liked_  quiet. He knew that, because any time the Scout came to call, the marksman spent most of the time in relative silence. He’d make coffee and push it into the Scout’s hands wordlessly, and then sit there, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and contemplating the dusty curtains. The Scout spent whole visits picking items up out of the detritus that cluttered every available surface, and asking about them, but it never seemed that the Sniper had much to say. Either quiet or private by nature, even direct questioning didn’t seem to get through, and what the Sniper  _did_  say was a collection of half-references that the Scout didn’t have the background information to explain. But, the Scout  _liked_  talking to him, liked the smell of wood and old paper that clung to the inside of the camper. It was nostalgic in a way the Scout couldn’t place. To have that cut off made him anxious in a way he couldn’t name. 

He’d asked his team mates if they’d seen the Sniper around, and nobody had, so either the guy was sneaking into the kitchen in the middle of the night, or he hadn’t left his camper at all. For six days. He would’ve asked the Spy, certain that if anyone knew something, it would be him, but he’d left for the airport almost the  _second_  the news came down that they were taking a little bit of a forced holiday. The Scout had his suspicions about where the Spy would pay to fly standby to, and who it was the man was so eager to see, but nobody listened when he voiced them. 

And he was  _bored._ Six days of absolutely  _nothin’_ , when you’re used to being shot at, does something to a guy. He’d read all of his comic books probably a hundred times, and it was  _miles_  to the nearest town, and even if there was anything worth seeing there, he didn’t have a car. Which is why he’d gone to see the Sniper in the first place, on the third day of this extended lull in the matches. The marksman was usually pretty amenable to driving him places. Seemed to  _like_  driving. His radio was busted more often than not, but he’d put up with the Scout’s commentary on the scenery, the decor on his dashboard, the cobweb on his side mirror, whatever. And that’s all the Scout asked for. 

But he couldn’t get a response out of the steel bulwark comprising the Sniper’s home-on-wheels, and it really rubbed him the wrong way. Couldn’t be the man was  _sleeping_  at this time of the day. It was like… four o’clock, he guessed. Finally, he took a running jump at the camper, scurried up the ladder, and ended up on the roof.

He wasn’t sure what his plan was for once he got up there, and he stood for a moment, looking at the surrounding dry prairie from this new vantage point. A mid-size bird of prey circled in the distance. A hawk or a falcon or an eagle or something. The Scout didn’t know, but he could bet the Sniper would.

“ _HEY!_ ” he called, stooping toward the vehicle on which he stood. “ _What kinda bird is that?!_ ” 

When he got no response, he started tapping his foot. Then stomping. Finally, he was jumping up and down on the roof, listening to the way the whole truck creaked on its axles, before the steel door scraped against its warped frame, and the Scout heard a quiet, “Quit that,” from the man within. 

Immediately, the Scout jumped down, ignoring the shock to his ankles, and situated himself between the open door and its jamb before the Sniper could lock him out again. 

The man looked like hell. 

He was sallow, and sunken-eyed, and looked ten years older, and the Scout stopped dead with his forward momentum because he wasn’t sure what he was expecting but that sure as hell wasn’t it. 

“Whoa,” the Scout said, resisting the urge to feel the man’s forehead like his mother would do if he or one of his brothers looked like that. “What’s up with you? Are you  _sick_?”

“Nah,” the Sniper muttered, and went to shut the door, but when he saw that the Scout was in the way he just stared wearily at his youngest team mate and waited for the Scout to move away. 

The Scout ignored it. “But  _jeez_ ,” he insisted, leaning this way and that, trying to get a look inside the camper to see if anything there would explain why the Sniper looked practically dead. “No one’s seen you for almost a  _week_ , and now here you are lookin’ like, I mean. You look like your own  _dad_  or somethin’!” 

The change was sudden and intense. 

“ _Don’t say that!_ ” the Sniper barked, colour sitting high and blotchy in his cheeks. In that flash, the Scout could see too much of the whites in the Sniper’s eyes, too many of his teeth. “Don’t—  _DON’T—!_ ” his voice rose in pitch and volume and the Scout heard the startled cry of a distant bird. That seemed to shock the Sniper into silence, and he retreated again, shrinking like a beaten dog into the shadows within the camper. He followed the Sniper in.

The place had changed. 

The precariously-balanced piles of detritus that gathered around the room had slumped unheeded and spilled all over the floor. The odd smell of the room likely had something to do with the collection of those jars, standing in a stack by the foot of the bed. The full jars were complemented by a mostly empty crate, which had within it three completely empty bottles, and a fourth, shattered amongst the boards. Quite a few more identical bottles stood on the night stand, and on the floor next to it, and under the bed, and on the book shelf. All empty. Half-full, however was a can of baked beans, which was beginning to sprout an unpleasant white fur. The fork was still stuck in its glutinous depths. The Scout closed the door, and was plunged into semi-darkness.

“This…” he shoved some newspapers and a phonebook aside so he could sit at the table, near a window so he got  _some_  light, leaking through the old drapes. “This ain’t like you.” He gestured around the room. Sure, the guy might’ve been a little bit of a packrat, but this was something else entirely. The Sniper didn’t look at him, sitting on the small bed and staring at his hands. “Maybe I should get the Medic—” the runner commented, beginning to stand, but the Sniper shot up. 

He didn’t say anything, but the Scout slowly sat back down anyway, and, after a beat, the Sniper did, too. 

“What’s going on with you, man? Seriously, this is like, this is like…” He wanted to say, ‘equal parts disturbing and disgusting’, but didn’t. 

The Sniper sighed. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not talk about it,” the Sniper replied, staring at the floor. 

“Uh, well, it’s not, and I mean. This ain’t  _normal_.” 

The Sniper glanced up fiercely, and the Scout backpedaled. “I mean, it ain’t  _healthy_.”

“What do you know from ‘healthy’?” the Sniper hissed, but he wasn’t looking at the Scout, so it was less of a shot than it could’ve been. 

“You oughta drink some milk, or  _somethin_ ’. If the Doc saw you like this he’d have a conniption.” The Sniper grumbled that he didn’t care, but the Scout pressed on. “Are you bored? ‘Cuz, we could go do somethin’, y’know, we could, go get some tacos, or… you know, I dunno what they got in town, actually. But, we could go look, y’know, see what they got?” 

“I’m not ‘bored’,” the Sniper protested quietly. 

“Right, right. Snipers don’t get bored. I mean, are you just practicin’ sittin’ still for hours at a time because if so, six days is probably some kinda record.” 

“No.”

“Well, what is it then?” The Scout felt like he was missing something, and he hated being left out of stuff. His oldest brothers used to do it all the time, and sometimes, team mates of theirs would do it, too. “Tell me what’s goin’ on because I’ll just sit here an’ keep askin’ if you don’t.” That was no idle threat. He had a distinct tenacity for that sort of thing. 

The Sniper’s eyes rolled up to him from the floor. He seemed to consider for a moment, before mumbling something and looking away again. 

“I… Come again?” The Scout didn’t catch what the Sniper had said, and it piqued his curiosity further, because, he’d really thought the guy was just being weird and reclusive as usual, but it was beginning to look like something had happened, and he  _really_  seemed out of sorts about whatever it was. 

Taking a deep breath, the Sniper tried again. “I called my parents,” he said, and the Scout’s shoulders sagged. He knew that the Sniper had a tenuous relationship with his father, knew they argued every time he called. But, it never stopped him from doing it anyway, and, it usually just made him testy for a day or two.

“Oh,” the Scout answered, somewhat uselessly. “You an’ your dad have a fight, again?”

“ _No,_ ” and here, the Sniper looked like he was gearing up for a bitter laugh, but his thin smile cracked and broke before he even got that far. “No.” He clasped his hands together, and the Scout could see the sweat stains in the man’s white undershirt, the unwashed stiffness around the cuffs of his pyjama bottoms. The Scout’s brow furrowed, and he took a breath, but the Sniper cut him off. 

“Mum had a stroke.”

The Scout had no idea what to say to that. 

“Oh,” he said again.

“He uh, my dad, he… wouldn’t let me speak to her. She doesn’t remember she has a son.”

“Oh,” the Scout repeated, but the floodgates were open now, and the Sniper went on:

“He said it’s for the best, said she’s got enough troubles as it is and doesn’t need to know her only living son’s— well. That it’s  _me_ , you know?” The Sniper shook his head sadly. “He’s probably right, ‘course. Here we been off work for six days and I’ve barely gotten up off my cot. I could go drive down to the airport, same as Spy did, take the first flight to Adelaide and search every hospital in town… They must’ve driven to Adelaide proper, t’get her treatment. It’s a couple hours’ drive, if you don’t go by hovercar, but, that has to be where they are. Only, I haven’t gotten up off my arse in almost a week, and, so, I can see where he’s comin’ from. Ain’t right. Ain’t right.”

“Naw, it ain’t right!” the Scout interjected, “She’s your ma, you know? You oughta be able to talk to her if’n you want to. He shouldn’t keep that from you, that’s just—”

“ _I_  ain’t right, Scout! Ask the World Health Organisation and this whole bloody outfit’s full of loonies! You an’ I know I’m one of ‘em, just, just look at this place!” 

The Scout swallowed. He didn’t think he’d ever heard so many words from the Sniper at a stretch. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like if his own mother forgot about him, and felt the humiliating mistiness behind his eyes that he’d tried to quash, tried to smother with senseless violence and carnage so people would stop calling him a ‘baby’ and a ‘mama’s boy’. 

“Thought it would be fine,” the Sniper rasped, “Taking a day to just, think about things. Only, one day turned into two, staring at the walls all night and sleeping through the day. Before I knew it, whole days had gone by and I’d barely moved from this bedroll. Didn’t want the world to know of my presence. If she forgot me, then the whole world could, you know? And maybe that’d be better. Maybe that’d be better.” The marksman’s hands, usually so still and steadfast, shook in the man’s lap.

“But, if she’s gone to the hospital, she could get better, you know? Remember you, an’, uh, an’ everything?” The Scout was grasping at straws. He didn’t know anything about strokes. He didn’t know if they were one of those things that caused people to go all dotty and start going to the supermarket in just their slips and stockings. He hoped not, for the Sniper’s sake. 

That’s when that dry, bitter laugh finally bubbled up. “Dad said the damage that caused it is pretty extensive. Holes in the brain.” The Sniper tapped his forehead and the Scout blinked rapidly. He didn’t know that could even happen, unless you, you know, you got… head shotted. What an irony. “Consistent with a long history of alcoholism, according to the neurologist. Family moonshine is strong stuff. Dunno how my dad’s gonna go on, you know. Without her. My brother Kenneth dead and me being the disappointment I am. Lost me, too, a long time ago, I guess, but at least he had her.” 

“Aw, come on,” the Scout persisted, a little desperately, “He ain’t lost you, I mean, you call all’a time, almost as much as I call MY relations, and I’ve got a heck of a lot more of ‘em than you, so, uh…” He didn’t know where he was going with that. The Sniper was shaking his head again, slowly, a ponderous sway left to right and back again. 

“Nah. I ain’t… I never been all  _there_ , Scout. I know that.” His shrewd eyes pierced the Scout’s and the runner felt pinned by that gaze.

“Naw, you’re… you’re an alright kinda guy, man, you shouldn’t, um…” This really was not his forte.

“When I was nine, my dad found me cuttin’ the tongues out of skinks. He asked me what the hell I thought I was doin’, and I said that they were such a nice blue I was gonna dry ‘em out an’ make a necklace for mum.” 

“Well, that’s…” the Scout cast about for an answer to that. “How different is that from a crocodile tooth hat band,  _really_?” 

The Sniper shifted his focus to stare at the narrow strip of evening light falling through the gap in the curtains. “This is  _not_  professional,” he whispered, and just then the Scout noticed a tear rolling down the Sniper’s face, and it was surreal. He’d never seen the man cry, or even look like he might. He’d never even thought about it. He stood, as quietly as he could, and picked his way across the room, stepping over the rubbish and the clutter. 

He placed a hand on the Sniper’s shoulder and the man’s head snapped toward him so fast the Scout almost jumped. 

“Tell me it’s for the best, Scout. She shouldn’t have to remember me. This way, I don’t have to hurt them again…” And his eyes were red-rimmed, and his face wanted to crumple, but it was the Scout who gave the first great sniff and swallowed a sob. 

They scrubbed at their faces and tried to rebuild the flimsy facade of masculinity. 

“It’ll be alright,” the Scout promised, clapping his hand to the Sniper’s back, trying to stay in control. 

Defying machismo, the Sniper wrapped wiry arms around him, his forehead resting under the Scout’s sternum, and he shook. The Scout answered the embrace, arms wrapped around the other man’s head and shoulders, remembering times he’d cried into his own mother’s apron as a child. He petted awkwardly at the Sniper’s shoulder blades. 

“It’ll be alright,” he repeated, holding tight as the last autumn light winked out on the distant horizon.

 

**Author's Note:**

> kandarainbowsoul on tumblr asked for sadfic with Sniper, so here’s my go at it. If you want more, you can find me on tumblr under the same name~! Title is a reference to “Que Sera Sera”, as sung by Doris Day.


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